


Fist over Heart

by merle_p



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Fisting, Flashbacks, I Don't Even Know, Illya's Hands, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Unorthodox Coping Mechanisms, We-Almost-Died Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 12:04:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5004154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/pseuds/merle_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are you with me, cowboy?” Illya asks, and his accent is heavy, thick, but his voice is steady and calm, not betraying any of the shakiness that has Napoleon shivering and twitching as if any second he’s going to come out of his skin. </p><p>“Nrgh,” he makes, voice muffled by the pillow, and he is glad, because even he doesn’t know if he meant that to be “yes,” or “no,” or “oh god please.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fist over Heart

**Author's Note:**

> So. This is *not* what I usually write. In more than one way. I would apologize, but I'm not entirely sure what for. Please read the tags/warning - for more notes, see end of fic.

The rain is pounding down in sheets, brutally, relentlessly, heavy drops like far-away gunshots against the metal roof of the car. 

The water sneaks into the back of his collar, runs down his spine, cold, viciously, makes his matted hair fall heavily into his forehead, dilutes the blood under his nails into pinkish trails along his wrists, soaks the muddy ground under his cheek, wet soil bitter and earthy against his lips. 

Napoleon blinks, vision blurred by the rain dripping from his lashes into his eyes, or perhaps it’s tears, stares at the back tire of the abandoned Jeep Wagoneer, at eye level not four feet away from him, blown out by a well-aimed shot from a BHP. 

He should get up from the ground, he thinks distantly, find an alternative means of egress, leave the clearing, leave this godforsaken awful place before the damn Minutemen come back and notice that he is not quite as dead as they might have thought after all. 

But the rain weighs him down, presses him flat against the ground, his body heavy with water and cold and guilt, and it would be so easy to stay where he is, close his eyes, not let himself think about the fact that he is alone, that he is still here, while Illya – 

 

Illya – 

 

slaps him across the left butt cheek, hard, the sharp sting making him flinch, jolt back to the present, back to the softness of the cotton sheets against his front, the cool air against his naked back, the sensation of Illya’s hand gently palming his ass, as if chasing the pain left behind by his slap. 

“Are you with me, cowboy?” Illya asks, and his accent is heavy, thick, but his voice is steady and calm, not betraying any of the shakiness that has Napoleon shivering and twitching as if any second he’s going to come out of his skin. 

“Nrgh,” he makes, voice muffled by the pillow, and he is glad, because even he doesn’t know if he meant that to be “yes,” or “no,” or “oh god please.”

“Hmm,” Illya makes thoughtfully, almost coolly, as if it doesn’t matter either way, and Napoleon groans helplessly when he suddenly twists his fingers, a quick movement that has Napoleon panting and shuddering against the sheets. 

“One more, I think.”

Illya moves his fingers again, spreading them carefully, stretching Napoleon impossibly wide. Three fingers in, and it already feels like he’s taken all Napoleon’s got to give, his knuckles thick and unyielding inside Napoleon’s body. Illya’s other hand is cupping Napoleon’s ass, holding him open, his palm large enough to almost completely cover the entire cheek. Christ, his hands are big, and Napoleon would know, wouldn’t he, has spent hours studying them, memorizing them, has seen them look huge wrapped around the grip of a Stechkin APS, seen them splayed wide and protective against Gaby’s narrow back, has seen them – 

 

clench helplessly, scrabbling for hold, as the men drag Illya away, four of them necessary to keep him restrained, not caring whether his head hits the rocks, or the root of a tree, and Illya’s eyes are big and wild in the darkness of the forest as they find Napoleon’s gaze, and this can’t be the last time, it can’t, not like this, but then Illya is gone and the rain is pounding and there is the sound of a gunshot, far away, and Napoleon screams – 

 

screams –

 

as Illya works the little finger in with the others, carefully but swiftly, without any warning. Four fingers now, and Napoleon tenses reflexively as his body fights the intrusion, because it’s too much, he can’t, it’s impossible to think that it would fit, and for a moment, he wonders if he’s going to black out from the raw sensation of it, the feeling of being torn open like this, laid bare. 

“Breathe,” Illya says quietly, and Napoleon tries to, inhales, but his breath stutters, he chokes on air, coughs, wheezes, and feels the edges of his vision turn grey for real. 

He feels the first beginnings of panic constrict his chest, but then Illya’s left hand is sliding up his back, coming to rest at the nape of his neck, heavy between his shoulder blades, a warm, steady weight. 

“Breathe,” Illya repeats, and Napoleon obeys, because Illya asked him to, because Illya so rarely asks for anything at all, and suddenly the obstruction in his throat is gone, his lungs expanding almost painfully with the air he gulps down in long, desperate breaths. 

He calms gradually, eventually, and as he comes back to himself, the flow of his breath as close to steady as it will get, his bodily perception has narrowed, focalized, become reduced to the feeling of Illya’s palm against his neck, anchoring him, and Illya’s fingers inside him, drawing him out. The initial pain of the stretch has subsided, leaving behind the unsettling, intoxicating sensation of being too open, too vulnerable, too exposed. He has ceded control over his body, hangs suspended between two points of contact, Illya’s hands the one thing to pull him apart and hold him together, all at once. 

“Alright?” Illya asks finally, and there is a roughness to his voice, not quite a tremor. 

Napoleon nods, not trusting his voice, and for a moment lets himself bask in the comfort of Illya’s fingers smoothing down his hair, a gentle, soothing gesture. He breathes, wills his body to relax, tries to brace himself for what’s coming, this thing that’s meant to strip him down and take him apart, this thing that he needs so much, that he craves beyond explanation or reason, except for the faith, the hope that Illya’s hands may be able to disrupt his thoughts, erase his memories of – 

 

the rain, the wet ground, the bitter despair, and Illya’s fingers digging into the dirt, the white of his eyes, the sound of the gunshot, the sound of the raindrops against the roof of the car, again and again, and – 

 

“Wait,” Illya says nonsensically, and abruptly, the pressure of his fingers inside Napoleon disappears. Napoleon gasps, tries to adjust to the sudden feeling of emptiness, relief warring with a sense of disorientation and loss, but before his body even fully understands what’s happening, he feels a firm hand on his shoulder, another on his hip, and he doesn’t resist when Illya turns him over, gets him settled on his back, just moves along without comprehension when Illya shoves one pillow under his sternum, another one under his head. 

Napoleon blinks up at Illya, dazed, shaken, and Illya gives him a rare smile, his eyes soft. 

“Better,” he nods, satisfied, and shifts forward on the bed again, regaining his position between Napoleon’s legs, his knees pressing lightly against the insides of Napoleon’s thighs. He reaches for the half-empty Vaseline jar, lid discarded and lost somewhere in the sheets hours ago, scoops out more cream with two fingers until his entire hand is glistening with slick. His left hand settles against Napoleon’s hip, fingers curving along the edge of his hipbone, holding him in place. His other hand briefly curls around Napoleon’s cock, mostly soft and barely stirring at the touch, but Illya doesn’t linger; his fingers glide down to cup Napoleon’s balls, a tender, fleeting caress, then come to rest against his hole once again, their mere brush enough to make the outer muscle twitch and clench with the sensory memory of intrusion. 

“Now look at me,” Illya says, his voice hoarse, and Napoleon almost smiles, because what else would he do? He does look at Illya, it feels like he is always looking at him, has been looking at him from the very first day, through the rear window of a car, across the divide of the Berlin Wall. He is looking at him now, his forehead scrunched slightly in concentration, eyes darkened with intense, single-minded focus, and Napoleon doesn’t look away when four fingers slip back into him with relative ease, sees nothing but the sweep of Illya’s lashes, sees nothing but Illya’s lips, parting slightly as he eases his fingers deeper, feels nothing but the shift of muscles in Illya’s hand, when he squeezes his fingers tightly together, when he tucks his thumb in against his palm, doesn’t feel – 

 

the rain, the muddy ground, the cold, the grief, the tears –

the tears –

 

running down his face when the knuckle of Illya’s thumb finally breaches him, tears of strain and relief and too much emotion. He is shaking around Illya’s hand, draws long, shuddering inhales, marvels at the sensation of Illya’s fingers reaching into him, touching his most inner core, and never lets his eyes stray from Illya’s face. 

For a moment, Illya pauses, completely still, frozen in place. He looks down at his arm, inside Napoleon up to the wrist, and there is an expression on his face that Napoleon has never seen before, a look of awe and amazement and shock, as if he had not expected this to happen like it did, as if he hadn’t known that he could take, take, what he wanted without asking, and Napoleon, the thief, the liar, the most selfish man to walk the Earth, would give it up, would give it to him, fully and willingly and without regret. 

Their eyes meet, Illya’s stormy and fierce, Napoleon’s blurry with tears, their gazes locking over the expanse of Napoleon’s naked body, splayed across the sheets, laid out as sacrifice at Illya’s feet, just where it belongs. 

“You are beautiful,” Illya says quietly, and Napoleon gasps, sobs, at the sincerity in his voice. Then Illya’s mouth sets in a tight line of determined concentration, his hand moves again, brushing up against that sensitive spot inside Napoleon just so, sending sparks of pleasure-pain-abandon throughout every fiber of Napoleon’s body. Against his will, Napoleon feels his eyes fall shut, and he sees – 

 

flashes of lightning, rain falling in sheets, the blood on his hands, and blood on Illya’s temple, the white of Illya’s eyes, Illya’s eyes looking down at him, Illya’s body around him, in him, tearing him apart, putting him together, and then nothing but the dark wave of pleasure, followed by black stillness – 

stillness – 

 

that does not quite recede even when his mind starts working again, later, much later; when he is curled up under the covers, loose and sweaty and sore, his legs pulled up against his belly, head pillowed on Illya’s lap. It is an embarrassingly romantic display that they will both feel mortified about tomorrow, but Napoleon thinks perhaps they can claim excruciating circumstances, just this once. Illya’s cock is half-hard, a warm pressure against Napoleon’s jaw, but there is no intent behind it, no urgency, only the soft bristle of Illya’s pubic hair under his cheek and the tenderness of Illya’s hands, gently massaging his scalp. 

“I was not sure this would work,” Illya admits, almost shyly, and if Napoleon had any energy left, he thinks he might laugh. 

“You put me through this on a hunch?” he chuckles weakly, but without rancor, because these days he trusts Illya’s instincts more than he does his own mind when it comes to knowing what he needs. 

“Not just a hunch,” Illya protests, a little indignantly. “Only –“ he hesitates. “I was not sure it would be enough.”

Part of Napoleon wants to tell him that nothing else would have been enough, if this hadn’t been; but the confession suddenly seems too big, too terrifying to articulate. 

“I thought they’d killed you,” he finds himself saying instead. It’s almost redundant, an obvious truth, merely an acknowledgement of the fears that had been gripping his neck, the fears that are to blame for what happened tonight. Still, somehow, hearing himself say it out loud makes something in him shift, tilt sideways, and to his horror, he finds tears shooting into his eyes once again. He blinks them away, and in the silence left by his words, he can hear rain starting to fall outside in the thicket of the Ozarks, splattering against the trees behind the mansion, again and again, like gunshots – 

 

gunshots – 

 

“Yes,” Illya says finally, quietly, still petting his hair with fingers sticky from residual Vaseline. “They almost did.” He sighs, nearly inaudibly. “One day, they will. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps next week. But –” 

He pauses, the movement of his fingers trailing off, and Napoleon tilts his head back carefully, trying to get a glimpse of Illya’s face. 

“But what?” he asks, and he feels Illya shrug more than he sees him move. 

“I try not to die these days.”

Neither of them points out the things implied in his words, the things Illya doesn’t say – that he didn’t used to care much whether he lived until not that long ago; that it is Napoleon and Gaby who gave him something to lose; that it might not matter all that much, in the grand scheme of things, because – 

 

because – 

 

“This is dangerous,” Napoleon states somberly, and that, too, is an obvious truth. To care means to tempt fate, in their line of work, and they know it both: tonight was too close a call, tonight Napoleon came close to losing it because of what he thought he’d lost, and if he waited until they reunited at the safe house to fall apart completely, well – Illya might not always be there to pick up the pieces. 

“You have regrets?” Illya asks, and his voice sounds calm, curious even; but the hand resting against Napoleon’s neck is trembling oh so slightly, so Napoleon shifts around until he can turn his head far enough to press a kiss into the broad curve of Illya’s palm. 

“No,” he says, in case the gesture wasn’t answer enough, because Illya, too, needs to be reassured at times, because the hands that can work so steadily to hold Napoleon together betray Illya’s own fears more clearly than anything else. 

“We still have four hours till the extraction,” he adds, and reaches up tug at Illya’s arm, hoping that he will understand what Napoleon doesn’t say; and Illya complies easily, scoots down on the bed until he is curled around Napoleon’s back, one arm around Napoleon’s shoulder, cock fitting lazily into the curve of Napoleon’s ass. 

“Sleep,” Illya says, palm flat against the expanse of Napoleon’s chest, right over his heart. “I will wake you.”

“Hm,” Napoleon makes, his eyes drooping already. The bed is a disgusting mess, and they’ll have to shower and strip the sheets before Gaby shows up, but in this moment, he cannot bring himself to care. Outside, the rain is still falling steadily, relentlessly, and he listens to the raindrops pounding a steady rhythm against the roof, feels for the rhythm of Illya’s chest raising and falling in time with his breaths. 

He sleeps, and dreams of – 

 

blood, cold, mud, the sound of guns, and Illya – 

Illya’s hand against his heart – 

his heart, battered but beating, still beating, still beating, in a gunshot rhythm with the rain.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Minutemen:** The Minutemen were an anti-communist right-wing paramilitary organization out of Missouri in the 1960s (named after secessionist paramilitary organization in mid-1800s). They were heavily armed, suspected of planning bombings, and one of their leaders, Robert DePugh, went to prison for conspiracy to bank robbery. There is of course no reason to assume that they actually did the things I relate in this fic, although one can guess that they would not have been too happy to stumble across a proper KGB spy on American soil. 
> 
> **Fisting:** Michel Foucault at least seems to suggest that fisting as a sexual practice was actually an invention of the mid-20th century and didn't really get "fashionable" until the 1960s in the gay scene. I haven't been able to find much to contradict that claim (aside from a somewhat obscure mention in a text by Chaucer that could be interpreted either way), although personally, I've come to assume that there is nothing really new under the sun when it comes to sex. One would imagine that since people have had hands for a long time, someone might have come up with this idea before. But I guess if you'd like, for the sake of this story you can pretend that Illya actually invented the idea as a post-mission ritual, and then it simply caught on. Either way, neither Illya nor Napoleon would have had much experience with the practice and probably wouldn't have had access to any kind of information/instruction regarding proper care and handling of certain body parts. They also wouldn't have had access to better lube than Vaseline.


End file.
